Tea
by ironicallynameless
Summary: One-shot. First attempt at Being Human. Just musings on the aftermath. Spoilers for S2Ep8 Rated T for safety


**Hey, so this is my first attempt at Being Human stuff, it's not a very good first attempt, but thought I'd put it up anyways. And I'm not sure if Mitchell breathes, probably been mentioned but I can't remember.**

**Errm so yeah, constructive criticism would be much appreciated,**

**El x

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He stared at the kettle vehemently.

He imagined throwing it at the wall. He wondered whether it would bounce. Or shatter.

He filled it. He emptied it. He filled it again, a single drop of salt water mingled with lime scale. He flicked the switch, exhaled a jagged breath he couldn't remember holding, pulled a chipped mug from the cupboard. His hand shook, but he took the teabag. Went for the sugar, and-

"_Do you want any tea with that sugar?"_ She was there, hands on her hips with a small smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. Chocolate eyes dared defiance, raised eyebrow made him feel small for the first time in an age.

He threw the kettle at the wall. It bounced.

He was fire and rage and fury and-

Tired.

Too tired to rage against what was, and what would be. Too tired to roar and curse and hate. Too tired to fight.

He slid down the wall, hunched up his knees and hugged them. He could imagine her, just like him, backed up against a wall, scared and screaming while he had indulged himself in his own pathetic blood lust. He closed his eyes but she was seared on his retinas, brave tears carving tracks in her skin.

The lust was drowned in the ache of emptiness she had left. The ever present itching, clawing desire for satiation was nothing compared to the pain. This, he mused idly, was all he'd ever needed … a pain greater than thirst.

His throat prickled. The kettle stared gloating from the corner, the smooth dent in the polished chrome surface reflecting his failure. He closed is eyes again. He never could make tea, and with her he'd never needed to.

He remembered one evening, coming back from the parlour, head bursting with plans of deceit and power games. All he'd wanted was a drink and then bed. He'd known as soon as he entered, mugs everywhere and her pacing, picking up a mug, setting it down the other side of the room, then putting it back again. She was on the edge, nervy, but so was he. He'd greeted her with a grunt and gone to make tea. She'd offered to do it for him and he'd snapped back with "I can do it myself". The kettle was boiling and he'd just needed a mug. Of course she'd filled them all. All he had to do was empty one, but he'd been in such a pissing mood.

"There's no mugs" he'd said, cold accusation flowing from him.

She given a small "Oh" and then made to get one from the windowsill, muttering "well here just have-"

"-Nah, doesn't matter" he'd interrupted turning for the stairs.

But she'd wanted to help, taken one from the coffee table and passed it to him, "No here, look, I only just made this one".

He'd taken it, it was cold. "It's cold". He'd slammed it down on the table.

She'd flinched, he'd raged, "It was cold fucking hours ago" He'd stormed for the stairs.

She'd bitten back, choking on a sob, "Well maybe you should have been here to drink it!" She'd vanished and he'd slumped up to his room without looking back.

Mitchell's eyes snapped open. The memory had surprised him, the incident had barely registered - he'd been so deep in vampire shit that he'd forgotten it completely. He groaned audibly and cradled his head in his hands, more guilt, another thing he never got a chance to apologise for.

A noise disturbed his self pity and he looked up to see George in the doorway with two carriers of groceries. George's eyes flicked from Mitchell to the dented kettle to the empty mug and back again.

"Cuppa?" Mitchell offered weakly from the floor.

George surveyed the room once more and sighed, musing without thinking, "Where's Annie when you need her."

The question hung, tangible in the air between them. It caught and slowed the surroundings, a drop of water strained from the rim of tap.

It fell. There eyes met and they laughed, hollow, weak laughter, but laughter all the same. The Annie shaped absence in the room eased a little and George put the kettle on with a small smile on his face.


End file.
